“A praxiian?” she asks, trying to keep her voice light. “Gray fur?”
“You’ve seen him?”
“No. But I know who it is.” She waits patiently by the sled while I fit the package of goods in the trunk. “He’s the one that’s been bothering me.”
I knew it. Somehow, I suspected it but just hearing the words from her, her voice casual, makes me furious. “You need to stay away from him. praxiians are dangerous.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Piper gives me an astonished look and then brushes her hair back from her brow. There, hidden underneath the heavy fringe of hair she always wears over her forehead, are old scars. Large slashes—made by praxiian claws—have marred the perfection of her skin, leaving deep, ugly gashes that disappear into her hairline.
Those came from a blow to the face, I realize suddenly, and it makes me even angrier. “He hit you?”
“Not that one,” she says quietly. “But I’m very familiar with praxiian tempers.” She releases her hair and finger-combs it back into place, hiding the evidence of her past, and then gives me a faint smile. “This is why I need a big, protective husband. Because I know praxiians have bad tempers and they’re not used to taking ‘no’ for an answer. Now, will you help me find one?”
I clench my jaw.
I’m just supposed to keffing help her find a husband? In this nest of criminals and lowlifes? Who think humans are one step above a walking, talking toy? It makes me angry, and the possessive side of me wants to snatch her away and take her home. To drag her into bed and not leave it for days. Weeks, even. These keffing idiots don’t deserve to look at her, much less touch her.
Or marry her.
But what other choice does she have? Piper’s made her situation clear.
5
PIPER
Vordigar’s angry with me.
Actually, I’m not sure if he’s angry with me or with my situation. It’s the same thing. He’s seen how I’m treated in port. He’s seen my praxiian stalker. He doesn’t know that the beast has been to my farm several times in the last month. That he broke my front door once looking for me and it was only because I was visiting Chloe and Jutari that I was spared a rape—or worse. He doesn’t know that I’ve come home to my farm reeking of praxiian piss from him trying to mark his “territory.” Nothing matters because Vordigar’s not staying.
I have to find a new answer, and a new husband.
It’s awful, though. I don’t want anyone else. I want Vordigar and his laughing, teasing face. Vordigar and the protective touch he puts to my back as he steers me through port. Vordigar and the way he treats me—like I’m a person and I matter. I thought I was hardened enough to my situation that I’d be able to pick up and carry on no matter what. That I could find another male to fill the role of my spouse and not be upset.
I am upset, though. I’m just better at hiding it than Vordigar is. I’m running out of choices, and all of them are not as appealing as he is. If only he wasn’t as kind to me, or as attentive, or as protective, this might be easier. Instead, I’m going to have to settle for someone new. Another stranger.
One that probably won’t touch me with kindness.
One that won’t make me smile.
One that, if I’m lucky, won’t abuse me or treat me like I’m less than him.
And I’m going to have a baby with this stranger…because that’s the best option to keep my freedom.
It’s terrifying, but I’m out of options. My only other choice is to hope that the praxiian decides I’m not worth it and fucks off? That won’t happen. The more I fight against him, the more he wants me. That’s how praxiians are—contrary and stubborn and with a cruel streak a mile wide.
I need Vordigar’s help to find me a new mate. A husband. But I can tell he hates the role. We pass people on the street and he glares at them. We go to the tavern and he won’t introduce me to anyone. A friend of his comes up and starts to talk to him, and Vordigar immediately puts his arm around my shoulders and hauls me against him. When the man leaves, he says that he was all wrong for me. Nothing more.
I’m both loving it and utterly worried. I love his attentiveness and how he hovers over me so protectively, like I’m something delicate and precious that needs shielding. If he was going to be my mate, I’d be giddy with happiness. But he’s leaving…tomorrow. And I need a substitute.
When hanging out at the tavern yields no leads, I quietly suggest going back to the jail. There were three men there a few days ago. Surely one of them will be desperate enough to take me up on my offer, even though I shudder inside at the thought. My suggestion makes Vordigar jump to his feet, though, and we pay our tab and leave the tavern, heading back to the sled.
“We’ll figure something out,” he promises me as my air-sled lifts off, heading back toward my farm. And then he grabs me and pulls me into his lap, hiking up my skirts. I’m panting as I pull at his clothing, freeing his cock and then rocking against it.
“We can’t,” I remind him when he positions me to take him deep. “You’ll get me pregnant.” There’s no plas-film in the sled, no protection, and my fertility shot doesn’t lose its potency for a few more days.
Vordigar lets out a snarl of frustration, then buries his face against my neck. He holds me against him, thrusting against my folds until he comes, and then uses his fingers on me until I come, too. By the time we get back to my homestead, we’re both panting and needy and unfulfilled, and don’t come out of my bed until late that night. I get up for a drink of water while he sleeps, my heart aching. I can’t get my hopes up. I can’t get addicted to his touch. He’s not staying.
It’s while I sip my water that I notice there’s something…off about my doorframe.
I approach my front door, heart pounding, and when I touch the door itself, the old-fashioned deadbolt falls to the floor. I pick it up, and notice there are claw marks all over it. The outside of the door has been scratched with deep, furious gouges as well, as if someone—a praxiian someone—tried to claw his way in. The damage is recent, because I didn’t notice it when I got home…and the rest of the evening I’ve been too occupied by Vordigar to pay attention to anything but him.
That means my praxiian stalker came by tonight. I stare at the lock, and then out at the darkness. He could have come inside. He broke the door open. Instead…he must have heard Vordigar and me in the bedroom. He must have heard what we were doing and left.
My skin prickles and I feel extremely unsafe. I put a hand on the door to close it again, and when I do, my fingers brush against something wet on the outside. It’s a dry night. Uneasy, my throat works as I get a flashlight and shine it on the door.
Long, wet ropes of milky semen are splashed all over my door.
The praxiian broke into my house to get me, and heard me and Vordigar having sex. He didn’t leave. He jerked off against my door.
I should be glad we weren’t hurt but all I can think is…he doesn’t want me dead. This means he wants me alive.
I swallow hard, try to calm myself, and go to get a towel to clean things up. The old scars on my brow hurt. I wet the towel and return to the door, scrubbing the acrid, sticky alien jizz off my door. After this, I’ll have to replace the lock and hope that Vordigar doesn’t notice. It’s not his problem. It’s my problem alone.